Memory
Sitting in a tea-house
drinking a cup of Earl grey tea
to kill the time
in a place where all customers were
house painters
or house builders
Then an old man
entered ordered a tea
and began to talk
about the eye glasses
that he found in the street
wanted to sell it
All men looked at him
by kind of a smile
After a minute
one man came to him
and asked for a try
Then he paid fifty pennies
and bought it
saying that
it was very good
and he could see better than before
It was a great deal
That I will never forget.
Old ruby glasses
warmed the world to match my wish,
softened every edge.
Staining the panes guilty red,
with light beaming inside me.
I don smart glasses
to smooth away awkward things
with bright white captions—
names, prices, warnings, labels—
until all is declared shamed.
Yet nothing has changed.
The older glass and new code
serve the same old eye.
persuade the incoming light
to return what it answered.
A tree becomes mine:
memory, fear, weather, want,
all falling on it.
The lens never changed the tree;
The bark shows my fingerprints.
Once I took them off.
The world refused to explain
itself to my eyes.
It had yet to find an eye
that could see without glasses
The glasses are empty the wine has been drunk
A table left untidied, with plates undone
The young shoots are patterning the apple trunk
Life appears for the favour of young
The old branches cut and piled on the ground
The old shades now vanished away
The TV controls wait somewhere to be found
Time stands still as if on delay
I hear your voice, feel it shifts through the air
The breeze of this morning flies by
You say I can’t see you here, are you upstairs?
I probably am, I reply…
A pit of molasses
devoured my glasses.
Coiled tendrils rose
to seize and dispose
of treasures unsighted
so minds are blighted
with flaming contusions
and twisted confusions.
Faces glowed scarlet
like strawberry tartlet
when things sailed
from pockets unveiled.
They changed their flags before sunrise,
and called it weather.
By noon the microphones were blooming
like plastic flowers in dust.
Reporters asked straight questions;
answers arrived sideways,
oiled and smiling,
wrapped in patriotic ribbon.
A man declared himself the nation,
the worker, the owner,
the speech, the applause,
the hand that signs its own praise.
He wore green glasses in famine
and praised the harvest.
He wore dark glasses in fire
and admired the shade.
Truth stood outside barefoot,
waiting to be invited in.
No one heard her knock
above the cutlery of ambition.
Wherever the platter was fullest,
there rolled the faithful.
Principles were folded neatly
and kept for ceremonial days.
Someone asked why the hen
still sat upon the egg.
The minister promised progress,
a cushioned chair by evening.
We laughed, because laughter
is cheaper than revolt.
We laughed, because the room
was wired to record our silence.
And still, every season,
the chair arrives before justice.
without glasses I saw a flock of wrens
flying in formation
from the top of a distant renegade tree
today I still see them
they have not moved
I put on my glasses
It is not wrens
It is an arm of a large invasive vine, and it is slightly waving
from the top of that unlucky tree
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wire rims~
thin as a whisper,
holding the weight of every page he turned,
every clockface he squinted at before dawn.
Now they sit,
empty orbits on my desk.
I lift them,
and the world bends~
not as he saw it,
but as I imagine he did:
The morning newsprint smudging into prayer,
the stubborn lawnmower that refused to start,
my childhood face,
always slightly out of focus,
as if love itself were a thing
that needed adjusting.
I wear them like a ghost.
The bridge rests light,
almost apologetic,
as if they knew
they were never meant to be mine.
Through Pop’s lenses,
the light is softer,
the edges kinder.
The coffee stains on the counter
look like continents he never visited.
The crossword puzzle~
half-finished,
pen dropped mid-clue~
becomes a map of all the words
he didn’t have time to say.
I take them off.
The room sharpens
into my own life again,
but for a moment,
I swear,
the air smelled like his aftershave,
and the light was gold,
the way it is
just before it fades.
Rose colored glasses?
No, crimson-colored glasses
To see the lashes
The lashes received
On the broken body of
Agape’s only Son
That endured wrath
On the mass’s behalf, we
We need, He bleeds us
Help us aspire
Look higher than the spire
From the gathering
Paschal Agnus Dei
Righteousness imputed to
All crimson value
We flagrantly sin
A flagrum on Him was used
Your repentance due
From crimson-lensed frames
We can look through to the stains
Washed whiter than snow
Zero tolerance for stupid nonsense.
Please tell me I'm wrong and misunderstanding.
I'm trying to stay optimistic.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 2nd place 2026
I bought some magic glasses, they cost me quite a bit...
A little loose at first, cos they weren't the tightest fit.
They kept on falling off, but I didn't care one bit.
I put them on, then took them off, cos I was scared as S**t!
They're on right now, I know that - cos I''m writing words like this...
When they're missing, I always somehow find them in my grip!
Theres no use in trying to loose them - i've already tried that trick...
Magic Glasses cant be lost...
or they wouldn't be Magic!
Clinging to my glasses, clearly.
Can’t see;
Can see far;
The bar is set.
Contacts for a while. Decisions;
Should I change directions?
While my daughter and grandson chose
To wear pairs, should I choose to be square?
Can I find
A pair to compliment my hair and eyes?
Surmising; surprising…
I’d once been four eyes;
Didn’t like it;
But I was shy back then -
Metaphorical frames of tortoise shell.
Actually wire frames; I think.
I felt ugly; I might feel beautiful;
Today’s a new day of decision.
I could buy single days; keep my sight
Clearly beautiful, bright and bold.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They sit folded on the windowsill,
a geometry of silver bones
holding lenses thick as bottle-bottoms.
Morning light catches dust particles
dancing in their patient curve.
He wore them low on his nose,
peering over the frames
while reading fishin’ magazines.
The bridge bears twin grooves,
softened leather pads worn thin
by decades of Sunday morning news
and crossword puzzles.
Now they frame only stillness –
ghost lenses reflecting the garden,
empty orbits where his eyes
once measured the world’s sharp edges.
Cold metal remembers the warmth
of his temples.
Colloquial touches frame the
gay repartee
Above the clink of glasses
strained eyes stares
where cobblestone roads
merge at Harts Crossing
I knocked over another glass of water today
wait
today it was only a bit of water and lots of ice
If I had a nickel for every glass I had knocked over lately
I could refinish my bathroom floor with nickels
I could never trust myself with a glass of juice
Hoping those sticky messes are behind me
Especially grape juice
I won’t even allow that in the house
It stains everything
Rose-colored glasses
the rough ahead seems rosy
details blurred ignored
dreams blossom with optimism—
truth in blissful ignorance.
Ethnicity lenses—
now that's a great idea
AI scans your race
then changes faces you see
into this ethnicity
All is rosy hue
all painted with the same brush
from the honey pot—
with judgment blurred, truth concealed
all differences bled away
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